


Illusions

by afoxinsocks



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 07:29:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10184036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afoxinsocks/pseuds/afoxinsocks
Summary: Perhaps it’s simply safer to maintain the illusion, than spoil the magic by revealing the simplicity of the trick.





	

“I’d be more at home in something like – that, maybe.”

She's beautiful, the Jaguar. Proud, understated, yet gleaming, powerful.

“She’s yours.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! You hardly know me.”

It’s an offer clearly meant for refusal, if not necessarily tailored for such, and Morse bats it away automatically, as convention and etiquette dictate, coating his words with bafflement and amusement as he squints back past Bixby, into the sun. Angling himself away, he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and fleetingly, wildly wonders what it would be like to accept Bixby’s offer, what it would mean, what sort of person that would make him, make either of them.

Bixby watches him, a slow smile unfurling, entirely unfazed. There's a confidence and solidity about him that is enviable and disconcerting at once. With a snap of the wrist he sends keys Morse didn’t even notice from his pocket into a graceful arch. Morse scrabbles to catch them, succeeding more by luck than anything else.

“Take her for a spin at least, old man. Before you write her off entirely.”

~

Morse guides the Jaguar through the forest out into the open countryside, following Bixby’s directions until he’s utterly, unfailingly lost. Powerful and graceful the car may be, but that doesn’t stop her punishing him when his attention wanders from the road ahead to the man beside him, she snarls side to side against harshly corrected steering.  They’re both trying to unravel each other, Bixby and he, that much is obvious. It’s in Morse’s nature to try – _a good detective_ – yet part of him struggles against the impulse. People are often so much less than you think, than you hope, and that includes himself most of all.  Perhaps it’s simply safer to maintain the illusion, than spoil the magic by revealing the simplicity of the trick. He loathes to be a disappointment, although all too often finds himself as one.

~

The impact is a dull thump and a rattle that sets his foot on the break an instant too late, but they stop regardless. Morse sits, hands locked around the wheel, feels his shoulders tighten as his stomach rolls and drops. He’s aware of Bixby slipping from the passenger side door to walk around the front of the car, eyes dropping to the ground. Wiping a hand over his face, Morse follows, to see a doe, small and still, in the road, eyes glassy, with a hole down her stomach and flank, blood and flesh leaking. His stomach rolls again and again, and he’s forced back, to cling to the car door.

Bixby's face is grimly set. “Nothing you could’ve done, old man. Beautiful things, but no road sense. We should move her. Take her back legs?”

“I – I _can’t_.” Not without embarrassing himself, not without the contents of his stomach joining the mess in the road. He doesn’t look up but knows that Bixby is looking at him anyway, knows that the illusion has been broken.

“Hop in the passenger seat, then. I’ll take care of her.”

Morse nods, walks unsteadily the long way round the car and by the time he’s sat down the deer is gone and the road is clear.

~

Fields and hedgerows blur into one endless flashing stream. Morse rests his head against the window and wonders where they are. They’ve been silent for a long time and now the sun is starting its slide down to earth. He feels the Jaguar gliding to a stop, blinks and shakes his fringe from his eyes.

Bixby smiles at him. “I thought you'd fallen asleep.”

“No, I’m just poor company.”

“Far from that, old man. In this light you look quite beautiful.”

His breath rushes out, incredulously, as Bixby’s hand reaches out to trace his right cheekbone, run along and down his face to slip warmly around his neck and stroke across his pulse. The sun makes shadows of Bixby’s face but for once Morse can see an unfamiliar look of uncertainty, even as he feels the gentle pressure pulling him closer.

“Is this alright?” Bixby’s words have barely any distance to travel between them, Morse’s answer even less.

“Yes.”

~


End file.
